


My Life's Been Sewn Up Tight Inside Your Hold

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-24
Updated: 2006-10-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8699245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean tries to prove to Sam that nothing's ever really normal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** My Life's Been Sewn Up Tight Inside Your Hold  
**Characters:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating:** NC-17 for language and graphic (almost)sex between brothers.  
**Warnings:** slash, incest, underage/barely legal sex. (Sam’s 17, Dean’s 21)  
**Word Count:** 3, 087  
**Spoilers:** Pre-series, so no.  
**Disclaimer:** None of this ever happened… _or did it?_  
**Summary:** Dean tries to prove to Sam that nothing’s ever really normal.  
  
  
  
He can’t remember her name. She tastes like vanilla, strawberries, and while he likes the combination all right, he can’t help but think of peppermint and toothpaste. Her hair’s a bit too long, several shades too light, not nearly messy enough. Her body’s all wrong. And, hell, she’s a good three inches shorter than him. It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but then she’s pulling away and whispering, “Did you hear that?” and all he can think is “Baby, I don’t wanna hear nothin’.”   
  
When the door flies open, he squints up into the light and refuses to acknowledge the hitch in his chest as Sam stares down at them, features schooled into what his little brother probably assumes to be indifference, but Dean can read Sammy better than a picture book and knows exactly what that look means.  
  
The girl squeaks, wiggles against him in a vain attempt to straighten her clothes and maintain her dignity, but Dean just sprawls out on the floor and stares back up at Sam from under half-closed lids. He feels all at once combative and relieved. _Wha’cha gonna do about it?_  
  
Sam’s lips tighten. “Thought I’d lost something,” his brother says by way of apology. “Guess I’ll look somewhere else.”  
  
He can hear the heavy bass thumping, can smell the bodies soaked in liquor and sex, but all he can see is Sam. The girl’s snuck out from between them, and Dean drops his gaze first, staring at the shag carpeting in the frat house and biting back the nasty response threatening his tongue.  
  
The door closes behind _Her_ , Sam huffs, and then it’s dark again and the body against his feels right. He can barely make out his brother’s profile, but Sam’s voice is clear when he says, “How much have you had?”  
  
Dean reaches up and wipes the back of his nose, unsure whether he likes this disapproving tone. “’Nuff to drive m’self back,” he says, although he knows that’s a lie. It’d taken damn near a bottle of Mexico’s finest just to get the nerve to feel up a sorority girl’s dress. That insulting realization is enough to piss him off even more. “Fuck off, Sammy.”  
  
He almost expects for Sam to. Hell, after the way he’s acted all night…first dragging Sam into this mess and then throwing him over for the first bottle-blonde bimbo to bat made-up eyes at him…well, let’s just say if the shoe’d been on the other foot, he’d’ve already had Sam’s ass mounted to the wall. But his brother is silent, and when he speaks again there’s a helpless note in his voice that destroys whatever remaining defenses Dean had in place.   
  
“What the hell did I do wrong, Dean?”  
  
“Ah, Christ.” He doesn’t want to deal with this now, or ever, but he’d been the one to fucking start it. All because the idea of Sam wanting to leave them – leave _him_ \- for all of this ridiculous bullshit had nearly driven him crazy. He thinks about the strangers in the other room, lying and scamming and cheating, and wants to scream “What the hell’s so normal about _that_ , Sam? What the hell makes you want them more than me?”  
  
“Who the hell says I do?” The sound of Sam’s frustrated voice makes him wince.  
  
He’s angry that he said it out loud; that the stupid tequila and God knows what else loosened his lips enough to admit what it was that’s really been bothering him. Because Christ only knows, Sam’ll never forget it. Kid’s like a dog with a bone, and now Dean’s gone and dug the hole for him.  
  
“Dean.” Sam’s shoulder brushes his, and Dean can just make out the soft and pleading expression coloring his brother’s features. “I already told you, I don’t—”  
  
“I don’t wanna hear it,” he cuts in sharply. “Fuck, Sam, can’t you leave me alone for two goddamn minutes?”  
  
He feels surly and contradictory. Part of him really _does_ want Sam to leave, to go away from him so he can finally fucking _breathe_. The other part knows he’ll suffocate when Sam’s gone.  
  
“Why am I even here then?” Sam finally explodes, sounding young and irritated and all but throwing his hands up in the air. “If you wanted to get laid, you didn’t need me around. What the hell…why are you…”  
  
It’s the tiny, choked sob that finally does it. There’s honest-to-God gut-wrenching _fear_ circulating throughout him now, and he snaps his gaze to where Sam’s leaning back against the wall; head bowed, shoulders slumped as if his seventeen years of woe are too much to carry any longer.  
  
“Sammy…” he starts, his own voice thick.   
  
“This is why I gotta get out of here,” Sam whispers, half to himself, and Dean freezes in the act of reaching out for his brother’s arm. “This isn’t right, Dean. You’n me…it’s not normal. No one would understand.”  
  
There’s a question in Sam’s statement, and Dean realizes Sam’s waiting for him to answer. And all he can say is, “No, Sam. They wouldn’t.”  
  
They both already know.  
  
“Y-You _should_ be with girls,” Sam continues, the heel of his hand pressed hard against his left eye, “and so should I. I should be out there, right now, looking for some girl to fuck and—”  
  
It sounds dirty and wrong from Sam’s mouth. “Shut up.” His hands are fists now, curled tight at the idea of what Sam’s words are painting. “Just shut the fuck up. God _damnit_.”  
  
“It’s not right,” Sam repeats, shifting to meet Dean’s gaze head-on. “Sleeping in the same bed, old as we are, jerking off and pretending the other isn’t listening.” He’s breathing heavy, but Dean can barely hear it over the roar in his head. It’s not until Sam closes the distance between them and murmurs, “I wanna do stuff with you, and it’s not normal, Dean” that his brain loses all reason, and then he’s got Sam shoved up hard against the wall with a leg between his thighs.  
  
“I dare you to say that again.” He’s not sure if he’s terrified or pissed off.  
  
Sam stares at him, rebellious eyes and defiant mouth. His voice cracks around the words. “I wanna suck your cock at a party, where anyone could walk in and find out. How’s that for normal?”  
  
Dean doesn’t miss the self-directed disgust there. Feels it like a sledgehammer to the gut, and releases Sam. “Then go,” he says, hisses, refusing to acknowledge the small quaver in his voice. Unsure what emotion is even driving his motives anymore. “You want your fucking normal, it’s right outside this door, Sammy.”  
  
Sam blinks long lashes, features half-lit from the crack under the door. “I already told you what I want.”  
  
Dean grits his teeth at the calm, Zen-like response. “You know, I’m too trashed for this. Get your shit together, we’re leaving.”  
  
“No.” And now stubborn Sam is back. Fingers close around Dean’s sleeve, and he’s jerked to a halt mid-sitting up. “Dean, don’t…not this time. Please.”  
  
He snorts at the melodramatic words, but can’t quite swallow past the razor-edge in his throat. “Don’t be stupid.”  
  
Sam just watches him, sloe-eyed and solemn. Dean can practically _feel_ his brother psycho-analyzing him, and he wasn’t lying when he said he was too damn drunk for this shit. He makes another effort to move away, fingers curling in the floor at his sides as he pushes up off the heels of his hands.  
  
He’s on his knees, reaching for the doorknob when Sam’s arms come around him. He freezes, feels hot breath on his neck and slumps back and into Sam’s embrace. His eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck.” A shaky breath. “Don’t do this.”  
  
“Then stop me.” Sam’s hand slips down his belly, hesitating only briefly before sliding over his cock. He feels his brother shudder, feels the squeeze of Sam’s fingers and can’t help but pump his hips up into Sam’s palm.  
  
“Oh, I will.” He reaches down to unsnap his jeans, letting out a relieved breath when the straining denim releases its hold over his dick. He spreads his legs wider, lips pursed as Sam tentatively strokes him. Can’t help but laugh a bit caustically. “Shy Sammy?”  
  
He hears Sam inhale sharply and knows the challenge has been made. It’s pretty much the only way this will be able to go down, for either one of them. His brother’s breathless when he says, “Turn around.” His voice dares Dean to give in.  
  
And Dean knows he’s too fucking gone to argue. But that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy. “Yeah, sure.” He drawls the words, all lax vowels and consonants as he shifts and finds himself face-to-face with Sam’s determination. His lips are slow to quirk as he cocks a brow, a silent _Well?_ on his breath.  
  
Sam’s staring at his mouth, and Dean imagines the pretty flush on his brother’s cheeks. “Gimme…gimme a sec,” Sam whispers, throat working. And it’s too much for even Dean’s anemic conscience to handle.  
  
“It’s not gonna happen, Sam,” he says, quiet and firm as he takes Sam’s hand and shoves it away from him. He knows he sounds like Dad – and how fucked up is _that?_ \- with the finality in his words and voice, but the guilt is piling on and he just needs to get the fuck out – of the closet, the frat house, the vicinity of those watchful eyes.  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“I brought you here to see…” He trails off, disappointed and upset. Nothing’s gone according to plan; he hasn’t changed Sam’s mind about anything. He can see that from the confused expression skirting Sam’s features and the sudden urge to put his fist through the wall has his knuckles itching. _None of this will make him happy._  
  
“Dean.” This time, the understanding grates on his nerves like broken glass. “It doesn’t matter. Okay?”  
  
“It fucking matters!” Dean explodes, turning back and dragging Sam up by his shirt collar. His eyes are blazing and seeing Sam’s widen a bit is perversely satisfying.  
  
“Yeah, it does.” Sam’s voice is soft, small, but he doesn’t back away. “Dean, when I leave—”  
  
Dean makes a sound and looks away. “Damn it, Sam—”  
  
“—I still wanna see you,” Sam finishes, stubborn mouth pressed flat as Dean rolls his eyes and snorts. “No, listen to me! Stop fucking… _look_ at me!” Dean does, and he can feel his lips pulling into a frown even as he tries to remain impassive. Sam just shakes his head, obviously frustrated, and mutters, “Why do you have to make this so damn difficult?”  
  
Dean bares his teeth into a semblance of a smile. “Jus’ trying to be normal here, Sam.”  
  
Sam flinches, and he knows he hit his target. “You’re just being a jackass.”  
  
Dean grins wider. Meaner.   
  
Sam drops his head, and when he looks back up, his eyes are half-lidded and gleaming. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself. And then, “All right.” Dean imagines the unsaid _if that’s how you’re gonna be…_ and nearly has to bite back a hysterical snort, until he finds himself against the door with his jeans tugged down around his knees.  
  
He opens his mouth, but Sam’s licking his and Dean can _hear_ Sam’s tongue wetting his bottom lip and lets out a quiet groan that sounds suspiciously like his brother’s name. Sam leans in close, and Dean turns his head and shoves a hand down on top of Sam’s sloppy mess of curls. “Show me you mean it,” he growls, dares, and waits for Sam to back out.  
  
Instead, Sam’s hands are heavy on his hips, his breath hot against Dean’s inner thigh. There’s a split-second of suspended disbelief on both ends, and then Sam lets out a choked sob and licks around the head of Dean’s cock. His tongue is hot, wet, velvet-rough and Dean bloodies his lip with his teeth.   
  
He slaps a hand against the back of the door, nails clenched against the wood, and swallows hard as Sam’s timid tongue-flicks intensify to steady laves. “Suck,” he directs, begs, hips bursting and rolling. “Sammy…please…”  
  
Sam’s panting below him, rubs his cheek against Dean’s spit-slick flesh and nods. There’s a moment’s pause before that mouth opens, widens and stretches over his dick. It’s sloppy and wet; Sam’s not swallowing and Dean can feel the drool dribbling out of his brother’s mouth and his balls go tight as he fucks past Sam’s lips. He has to steady himself, reaching out for Sam’s shoulders, coming to his knees and forcing them both back against the far wall.  
  
Sam lets him angle and maneuver him the way he wants, gently sucking and keening around Dean’s dick as he looks up every few seconds to meet Dean’s glazed expression. His lips come off with a slick pop, and Dean’s breath comes to a stuttering halt. There’s a question in Sam’s eyes, and Dean groans.  
  
“S’good,” he manages thickly, licking his lips and petting Sam’s hair. “S’real good, Sam…don’t stop, okay?”  
  
Sam’s expression melts from uncertainty into something like triumph, and then he lowers his head again and Dean’s gaze turns upward. He’s had his dick sucked so many times in his life, and Sam’s hardly an expert. But it’s _Sam_ and his mouth feels like the heaven Dean’s not even sure really exists. Right now, Sam’s making a damn good case for it.  
  
He’s drunk enough to be able to (mostly) ignore all the usual doubts creeping up - _this is wrong, dirty, not right_ \- but it doesn’t stop him from fucking deeper, harder, sweat stinging his eyes as Sam gags and digs his fingers into Dean’s hips.  
  
“Sorry,” he slurs, pulling back and staring down at his brother through his lashes. His gaze is immediately drawn to the thick bulge tenting Sam’s slacks. He hasn’t even kissed his brother yet, and he’s already thinking of stripping the tailored cotton from his hips and fucking a memory of himself into that body that’ll burn every time Sam sits down to a college class.   
  
“Dean?” The question is soft and gasping; Sam’s lips are puffy and swollen. “What…”  
  
Dean leans in and takes Sam’s pouty bottom lip between his own, tasting himself and biting back a groan. His head is spinning and it’s way too fucking hot and stifling in the closet, but he can’t stop. Sam’s clawing under his shirt, searching for bare skin with his fingernails, and Dean pulls away long enough to murmur, “Against the wall.”  
  
Sam blinks, slow and uncomprehending. And then he sucks in and shakes his head so that several strands spill across his forehead and eyes. “Now?” There’s an excitement palpable within his brother that stirs an almost painful need in Dean.  
  
“Just turn around, Sammy,” he chokes off and reaches down for his dick, palming roughly. He knows what can happen and what shouldn’t, and just how to skirt the line in between.  
  
Sam doesn’t even hesitate, and that’s scarier than anything Dean’s ever hunted during his long and illustrious career. Within seconds his brother is bare-assed and spread against the wall, head cocked to watch Dean as he kneels there and gapes. Sam bites his lip and squirms a little. “Dean,” he’s keening, and that near-whisper sets everything back into motion.  
  
He brushes back the tiny sweat-soaked curls against Sam’s neck, chasing with his lips. “Not gonna fuck you,” he whispers, although the words are more for himself than Sam. “Just gotta…wanna feel…” He presses closer, his cock nudging between Sam’s legs. “Ah, _hell_.”  
  
The noise Sam makes when Dean gently humps against him is muffled into his arm, but Dean can hear the emotion in that strangled curse. He whines through his teeth, one hand wrapping around Sam’s waist and dragging him closer. He’s riding that tight little crease and fuck, he wants more.   
  
“C’mon.” Sam bucks back, shifts and squirms and Dean nearly loses his balance. Obviously, Sammy wants more, too.  
  
“Cut it out,” he slurs, and drops his hand to where Sam’s cock is pressed up against his belly. Sam jumps when his fingers close around the thick, tender flesh, and then his brother is pumping into his fist and crying out loud enough that Dean momentarily worries they could be overheard over the loud music and even louder conversation.  
  
“Use your thumb…u-under the head,” Sam says in a guttural tone, and Dean’s hips jerk forward at the sound of little Sammy instructing his big brother on how best to jack him off. He sees Sam’s tongue come out to lick his lips, his eyes falling half-closed as Dean does what he wants. “God. Yeah.”  
  
“Christ, Sam.” His brother is as innocent as a baby, and as debauched as a drunken cheerleader on prom night. He moves his thumb gently along the underside of Sam’s cock, relishing the throaty, choked sob that follows. “You close?”  
  
“Uh huh,” Sam grunts, keens, shoves himself harder back against Dean and clenches his ass along Dean’s length. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”  
  
He feels Sam’s body go tense only seconds before wet heat splashes against his fingers. Dean sinks his teeth into Sam’s jugular to stifle his own moans, coming in a sloppy mess against his brother’s ass while Sam continues rolling his hips up and into Dean’s fist. He has no control over what comes out of his mouth anymore, babbling helpless words of _don’t gotta go_ and _could be like this_ that’ll never outlast his orgasm. At least, not out loud.  
  
And it’s so fucking stupid, really. Just some throwaway line Sam’d confronted him with after a fight with Dad; schoolbooks flying around the room, Sam’s features flushed with anger and youthful rebellion.   
  
_I’m gonna make something of myself, Dean. I’m not gonna throw my life away. Not gonna live fucked-up and turn into him._  
  
He hadn’t liked hearing it, but hadn’t really believed it either. At least, not until he’d discovered the college registration packets in a heap under Sam’s bed. He’d met the Phi Mu girl later that same day, learned about the frat party, and suddenly there was the plan to show his brother that “throwing your life away” could mean many different things.  
  
But when it’s all over, and a still-shuddering Sam turns to look up at him with features that reveal a heartbreaking mixture of fear and relief, he begins to wonder if maybe he’s only succeeded in proving Sam’s point instead.


End file.
